"goldenrod" poems
It was the time of my Auntie Bee summers
I was small then
She had a parakeet that landed on my head
and a bathtub too
with water so deep!
and legs and claws!
**** thing nearly chased me down the stairs!
She lived in slumbery Windsor Locks
where bugs hung-out in the haze
of teenage August
I played in the tall weeds
with a shoeless Italian boy
who ate tomatoes like apples
and cucumbers right off the vine!
He was ***** free and foreign!
We played— reckless, abandoned
behind the gas pump, under the tractor, in the barn
and through the endless fields
I didn’t know....
His name was Tony
I ate pizza with him—the first time
At Auntie Bee’s I had to go to bed at eight
but I could watch night flowers
bloom on wallpaper
She came in to say good night
slippered, shadowy, night dress slightly open
and I peeped her *******
like Tony’s cucumbers!
I had never seen my mother’s wonders....
Night spread its wings from the old fan—
a bird of tireless exhaustion
whipped, whipped, whipped to death in its cage
tireless exhaustion
tic-tocking in time to a wind-up clock
stretched out on the whine
of the overland trucks
Route Five through the night of an open window
In the grape arbor below—
tremulous incessant
crickets crickets crickets
tremulous incessant—insides of a child
a summer child
not yet ready for the fall of answers
Auntie Bee had a daughter—Maureen
I followed her everywhere I could
I was small then--
do anything for a stick of Juicy Fruit
I followed Maureen through my dreams
of being sixteen
and woke to Peggy’s “Fever”
while she tied her sneakers
against the mattress by my head
I followed Maureen (in my mind)
tanned and bandanned
to work in the fields of shade tobacco
with all those Puerto Rican boys!
She knew where she was going!
I was small then
...do anything for a stick of gum
“Mauney! Mauney! Mauney!”
...through the goldenrod of roadside
through the smell of oil that damped the dust
I followed Maureen’s white shorts
and chestnut hair...to the corner store
I followed the way the boys smiled
the way the screen door slammed
on her bright behind
the way her lips taunted and took
the coke-bottle’s green
I followed Maureen
I swear, I tried for hours to get that right!
Must have been Peggy Lee’s “Fever”
Maureen ties her sneakers in my face
Flaunts her years above my head
She has that look—
“We kids don’t know nothin”
(Little turds” that we be)
…followin’ Maureen
through the goldenrod of roadside
tic-tockin’, beboppin’
“Fever— in the morning
Fever all through the night….”
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 11:30 PM UTC
All lovely things will have an ending,
All lovely things will fade and die,
And youth, that's now so bravely spending,
Will beg a penny by and by.
Fine ladies soon are all forgotten,
And goldenrod is dust when dead,
The sweetest flesh and flowers are rotten
And cobwebs tent the brightest head.
Come back, true love! Sweet youth, return!-
But time goes on, and will, unheeding,
Though hands will reach, and eyes will yearn,
And the wild days set true hearts bleeding.
Come back, true love! Sweet youth, remain!-
But goldenrod and daisies wither,
And over them blows autumn rain,
They pass, they pass, and know not whither.
7k
I had not been born yet.
Still, I can see you at your labor -
alone, scouring the meadows
for the stones -
lifting their gray shoulders
from the moist earth -
pulling them from the
green grasp of briars,
goldenrod, and
Queen Anne’s Lace.
The smell of the earth
must have filled you with
your own childhood memories -
of plowing fields
and cold mornings
trudging across barn yards
mud thick on your boots -
promising yourself
that someday you would leave
and never return.
I can hear the pick axe -
the sharp strikes
against the stones,
and the dull thud
when the earth
swallowed the blade -
and the deep exhalations
when the stones tumbled into
the old wheelbarrow – new then -
that now leans rusting
against my garden shed.
Some of the stones were so large -
far too large for one man –
how did you move them?
I look at the old photographs
and you seem so young –
so much younger
than I am today - and so thin –
staring off-frame beyond the camera.
What were you looking for
in those fields?
I can see you sorting the stones,
stacking them -
building and unbuilding
and rebuilding the walls
and terraces
until the walls were true
and the terraces level
and planted with dogwood,
birches, soft grass for bare feet,
and bordered with roses.
Did you know
that you were building my castle?
That the highest terrace
would be my tower and keep?
I remember calling out to my
knights, my legionnaires,
and tribesmen –
rallying them in defense
of the citadel – ready for
the coming siege.
I also remember looking out
across that verdant kingdom
for the last time -
no longer a king or a boy –
and miles away, across the river
to the west, I imagined
the new home that awaited us.
I couldn’t know
how far away it would be
or what it meant to leave.
This morning,
as I looked out across
the garden that I have built,
I felt the weightlessness of time
and its gravity
settling me into place.
For a brief moment I had
the sensation that I was standing
on the shoulders of
gathered stones.
(for my father, Guy Spencer.)
Tom Spencer © 2015
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 12:13 PM UTC
My sweetest soldier left me and was dragged across the sea
My nights are now silent and my heart is drowned with fear
So, here I cannot stand to be
Through weary nights I held my guard
'till the stars came out to torment me
For, all the beauty of the night was now forever marred
My heart trembled with the candlelight
So I went to seek her chambers,but all was locked and barred
Even whispered words from my dear soldiers could do little to ease my fright
I wrote letters to my sweetest knight with sparkling, savage fury
I fought sleep away with every ounce of my might
Too soon, my hands and eyes grew weary
I filled my pages with stories of beasts we would nevermore fight
my eyes where too full of tears so I could not see clearly
I've lost my dearest companion and the bringer of my light
She sent letters back,of course, and they were wept over with many a tear
For a day, sprigs of goldenrod adorned my collar bright
for a day, at least, I forgot to think of fear
Then I had dreams of feathered serpents wrapped around her throat
her eyes were scratched out by hoary hell-kites and her heart was pierced with a spear
All my daylight hours, and all my nighttime too, to my knight I did devote
We continued writing letters and I lead my soldiers too
no one ever asked of what this did denote
'till fever caught me by my throat and threw my mind askew
My hands shook too violently and ink had streaked my page
In my letters, I tried so hard to have my pain seem subdued
My dear light-bringer needn't fear a fever's shallow rage
She saw through my ruse too quickly and I think she panicked more
I tried to calm her with winged words and locks of sage
I promised her there was a cure
My dreams were fueled by fire and the darkness lurking there
when I woke I fell sobbing to the freezing floor
She would have gathered me in her arms and kept me in her care
Beasts and berserkers set my night under siege
I could only see my sweetest knight scarred by bloodless warfare
Her spirit fell to the mercy of my new-found, thankless liege
My throat was streaked with clawing pain
cups of water I did beseech
bitter liquid assailed my body and bound my fate with chains
I saw my sweetest soldier and her hands skimmed through my hair
Her eyes shined like pearls which I hoped she would retain
Her kisses on my cheeks were so radiant and rare
I knew then never would we be apart
and in my chambers with the firelight there
I could rest with the keeper of my heart
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 12:24 AM UTC
Your thunders roll,
The twin sets clash and tolls.
Unpleasant sounds toss and wake.
Even the whole earth seems to shake.
Why did this happen here?
What caused this conflict to begin here?
All knows that the gods have feuded and side.
Only wanting nothing more than status pride.
Rules debated and time standing come yet.
For these greedy, merciless gods take what they can get.
There will be a law said,
To avoid the call of family banishéd.
But what about you?
When tis your cue?
To speak freely against the gods
And demand fairness firm and strong as goldenrod?
Resist blindly following their pleas.
Because then the conflict will never ease.
Do not forever be misguided.
For you yourself is already undecided.
Choose well and wise.
The gods will soon see your open eyes.
Even if the thunders roar,
Your choice will be even more.
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 6:59 PM UTC
dings and whistles from the slot alert him escape -
sit before my image enter its wild wolf canyon escape
winding road in lofty forest landscape
beckon her - leave him for my green escape
triple x signs promise writhing bodies
heavy breathing and dark dank escape
the flute lay still of the silent table sparkling
sweet melodic memories of fingered escape
the frothy surging surf traces the seam of the sea -
bathe in my ***** wrap your self in my fluid escape
locked door soft light from below no sounds
inside creative energy sparks a poetic escape
on the placid lake he casts his hopes
awaits the tug - he and his prey escape
she stands eyes closed, smiling face turned upward
feels the breeze in her hair thanks God for this sweet escape
he runs in the field of goldenrod tears stream
and he screams a desperate entreaty for escape
the sylvan spirits flown from the mountain trees
into the green glen whisper as angels - escape!
May 27, 2019
May 27, 2019 at 7:18 PM UTC
Your brittle calcium coated voice
slides down my throat like water,
little blue gods of poetry.
Nothing to do but **** and fight.
There’s a run on sentence in my veins
whole flowers framing my bruises.
My bone quiet bruises
wait five miles from your medical voice,
english coastline of veins
covering my anatomy like large bodies of water.
**** yesterday’s fist fight
you left your apologies in poetry.
My alcoholic poetry
a blood orange coated in bruises
a history of last night’s pillow fight
catching religion in your voice.
The swallows splash in water
quiet in my dessicate veins.
Fields of goldenrod veins
make my honorary poetry
a theory of cursive water.
Leave aching vegetarian bruises
on my calloused voice
from tearing open the sun to fight.
A polaroid water fight
rolls around in my open veins
a punctuation of your raspy voice,
hospitalized my skin in poetry.
A reckless consumption of bruises
with a mint leaf in a glass water.
Soft echoes burn across the water
silver scissors in a domestic fight
running away from bruises
and mountains of veins.
My second language is poetry
giving my fingertips a muffled voice.
Empty water pleads with your broken voice,
makes me fight against pleated poetry
and pomegranate bruises tighten in my veins.
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 12:17 AM UTC
Mouth
every mouth
every mouth breathes
every mouth breathes autumnal.
Every mouth breathes autumnal investigations.
Every mouth breathes autumnal investigations
tinged with sepia tones-
Torch trees
live in lazy desperation,
these last cider days
in burrows and blanket caves.
Heat in color - amber, saffron, goldenrod, maize.
Sepia tones
sepia tones tinged
sepia tones tinged with investigations.
Sepia tones tinged with autumnal investigations.
They see every mouth breathe.
See every mouth.
Mouths.
Jun 24, 2012
Jun 24, 2012 at 6:48 PM UTC
they say you should
fear flowers for they
grow in adversity,
adapt, and face
the sun, and
when we
were little
we ****** on
the stems of gardenias
like honeybees with our
nimble, sticky fingers. And
today I learned to ride a bike
with no hands and a sweat
plastered shirt clinging to
my spine, so, instead,
shouldn't you be afraid of me?
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 8:50 PM UTC
When we were kids
they taught the raspberry things
dyed lips blue and rubbed honey
on before kisses, everything was
stale sugar, your breath warm
lemonade and red ochre arms
chilled in the goldenrod shadow
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 1:20 PM UTC
angelica fits, weaves through
my fingertips,
out my mouth sprouts
morning glories
and wormwood blooms across
my eyelashes. i’ve lost
something i never had;
nevertheless
i feel the lack in
the spaces in my chest.
perhaps some space is left
yet uncultivated,
yet unpopulated by meadowsweet or
marigold --
perhaps i could unfold
the silk-soft petals of
a crocus,
let the columbine alone
and let the moss rose grow.
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 11:37 PM UTC
and in it she stood
awash with crescented chrysanthemums
with honeysuckle skin and wisteria eyelashes
and with it i said
if nights were like coins
id spend them all on you
and twinkle them between my fingers
shaking them up and admiring
the glint and value of
the night and its stars
and the coppery, nickel-y dusk
that stains my hand with
the bouquet of metal and flowers
goldenrod warmth
from nights and coins
invariably spent
alongside only you
with a perfume of
evening
and pressing summer heat
and my whispers and promises
that tell you
that if nights were like coins
id spend them all on you
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 2:56 AM UTC
August is wonderful month for star gazing.
Camellias, dauphin Oise and renuculars in full bloom this August
How much sun does my August Moon flowers needs;
the more sun, the more golden the texture shine on through
Here came the brides, marching down the aisles with theirs fathers
While, the theme of Goldenrod, Sunflower yellow, Saffron and Dandelion takes center stage,
August is a month that stands its own merit
an excellent month for bird migration, but not for illegal immigrants
August's birth flower is gladiolus, its comes with, calm, integrity, and infatuation
August is the wayward month no less.
Star gazing at its best
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 9:41 AM UTC
Goldenrod in bloom
Bunny hopping through the woods
Acorns fall from oak
~Marian~
Jun 3, 2017
Jun 3, 2017 at 12:17 PM UTC
The golden girl, is not lost,
The Canadian Plains transversely crossed,
Destination unknown, but her dust trail,
Her goldenrod writings, take my breath away,
Her stories leave me incomplete, inchoate,
For I drink her trust, drink her dust,
Yet thirsty left, pleading, more.
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 11:47 AM UTC
You're having a bad day
not everything is good?
Yes, that's very true...
come in and sit down.
You haven't eaten?
Well...
you came to the right place.
Here is a nice armchair,
my Grandmother's from Ethen Allen
yes...
a beautiful deep burgundy color
with goldenrod yellow twirling paisley
in a burning orange background...
lovely she is
her shapely curves...
rugged, straight lines
carved into flowers
her cherry stained legs
worn edges...
so soft, comfortable and weathered
I agree
she is very reliable and sturdy
and she is kind
so forgiving...yes?
Oh, fresh coffee ...
ahhhh you smelled it,
of course
here you go
a steaming cup of hopeful dreaming...
brilliant,
in a aromatic plume of Tahitian Hazelnut
swirling ribbons of fresh Vermont cream
cinnamon rolls in the oven
sugary love smells intoxicating...
yes?
glazed sugar awaiting
as cool crisp dried leafy breezes
flow through waiting drapes of warm white linen
Yes, so very poetic this place...
A gift...why I'd say!
I love this time of year
very much...
especially the trees...
floating in the air
the leaf dancers drift silently
waving Goodbye in the Fall winds
Welcome to my Vermont
to the beautiful Green Mountains
in splendid peaking colors
panoramic splendor
The natives so
oh...you know
They call 'em verdant visions
again come springtime
come on, stay awhile
put on a friendly smile
a welcome done in style
my home is your home
take your hat off what's the hurry?
Cherie Nolan © 2016
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 11:25 AM UTC
Sug
The frame a town in the Midwest time teen years the person a girl I have been touched by the Smokies
Its southern magnificence the heritage it evokes, the Rockies awe inspiring, the Sierra Nevada its
Grandeur commanding sheltered by the San Gabriel’s as I played in Los Angeles these places have one
Thing in common they cause you to look out and beyond on the rich views below and they cause a
Mighty flood of memories to crash ever so sweetly in the soul yes plenty of teenagers were around but
For different reasons each uniquely stood out and apart all that made up the texture of this time its
Greatness the final touches were being added to our lives and from this we would go on the harder
Sometimes tougher road of life but in the midst of it all she stood like a Goldenrod impossible to miss
Bright yellow in the profusion of other vivid colors for Ed unforgettable she possesses an undertow of
Quiet Cool she didn’t make a great stir but a gentle one you slowly stepped and submerged yourself in
The Quiet magic she created truly the pebble had fallen into the pool imperceptibly you couldn’t put
You’re Finger on when but the circles continued to widen and you felt their effects a gentle hush
Pervaded our sometimes rambunctious lives she at times was that indefinable darker hue that brought
Depth to The picture soothing tremble that came into your life touched you then continued to the outer
Reaches Still it lingered and in its make up hope sprang up causing a defense ageist alarm no harm
Defied Her Charm this is just my simple way of saying thanks for being a wondrous part of my youth and
what I am today and also happy birthday Sug
Jan 10, 2012
Jan 10, 2012 at 2:02 AM UTC
poets often write about running
carefree
through prairies
as if it is romantic.
they don’t know the itch
the ***** of thick grass
the **** of goldenrod
the sting of thistle.
they haven’t hoisted one moist rubber-clad leg
waist-high
over the other
again and
again and
again
waterproof yet sweating
just to move ten feet.
they haven’t picked seeds from sticky skin
as the fields give way to marsh
grass to cattails
reeds to rushes.
they haven’t bobbed
and balanced
up and
down and
up
on floating mats
of dead, sewn stalks
walking on water
a minefield of bog slime.
i haven’t stopped watching my steps
since i got that job
and i think i’m due for a misstep.
i’m looking to stop scratching
to stop picking
to stop bobbing.
i’m looking for a darling weak spot
strong enough to swallow me
in this swamp.
i would bushwhack to her
through the pricking
the prodding
and the stinging
put the wrong foot forward
plunge through the mat
and let her pour over the tops of my waders
and sink me
deeper and
deeper and
too deep.
i would drown in her.
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 12:53 AM UTC
As snow does to a fire that runs
Blue white Ophelia floats
Mad with love as magnificent as snow
And among water lilies
Star which melts away
The wind kisses her *******
Shivering willows
A nest of mad kisses
Curves of her back
In each soft corner
From violet forests
His sweet brow
On the seascape
The calm black water
Black moss embroidered
Her great veils rising
Why the goldenrod stars
Love her reflection madly
The rivers are a sail
Shadow flowers with bale
Scented twilight
A pearl sky
Jul 11, 2010
Jul 11, 2010 at 10:59 AM UTC
Light creases the pavement
like ruddied cheeks on a pillowcase,
warms the scrappy reeds,
the goldenrod bunching
on hillsides,
the tired, waterless crop
and their juvenilia tenacious
and cambering over field -
(and with present as marked past)
all realigns
and is overwhelmingly
simple
Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 9:43 PM UTC
The moon is missing
Old stories oppress the scorned clock's hand
What is this interminable waiting?
Lost are the World's metaphors
Lost and fled to a dark place
Once beehives born in new orchards
They now dissolve in time's dead way
And die in the viciousness of niceness
Densely social and devoid of empty
Do I dare ask these forbidden questions
She is missing, missing to me
I know where she is but I can't find her
but now I see the harvest corn
and a bursting city of goldenrod
(this can only mean good)
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 1:38 PM UTC
In a field of
grasshopper heat
of
the pride
the prone
of
the all that
is forever gone
of
crow hops - hops - hops
down a bug
of
a bridge I built
across a creek
of
frogs that
take a peek
of
overhead
an eagle soars
of
a mouse
fast in the grass
of
cattails
around the pound
of
a snake , branched
hanging on
of
upon seeing me
falls and is gone
of
a sea of goldenrod
and green
of
sadly seeing
yesterday's dream
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 9:26 PM UTC
She's my mountain rose
& I'm her blue spruce.
I'd love to spread
her patchouli
all over
my ylang ylang,
then kiss her cypress,
give her a bit of my goldenrod
& lay in the lemongrass
holding hands
to view
the star anise
wasting thyme.
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 8:28 AM UTC
Centered on the table, there sits a bowl
Filled with the fruits of a rainbow of shades
Colorful essence erupts in my soul
Maroon, chartreuse, rose, goldenrod, and jade
Ignore the mouth watering sensation
Caused by a vibrant banana - yellow
I cannot give in to my temptation
The priceless jewels lay silently, mellow
I gaze at the fruit in perfect rapture
Stroking my fingers against smooth cherries
Such sweet gems have my attention captured
I eye the dozens of bright, plump berries
I soon discover a fate so drastic
The flawless bowlful of fruit is plastic
Jul 7, 2010
Jul 7, 2010 at 11:19 PM UTC